5 Platonic Touches Plus 1 Which Wasn't
by wendymarlowe
Summary: Five times John touched Sherlock for totally plausible non-romantic reasons, plus one with no plausible deniability whatsoever. (Six 221B ficlets.)


1

"Will you believe me now?" John asked, sitting on the lip of the tub and studying Sherlock's face as Sherlock crouched on the floor with his face over the toilet. "Not everything is a result of someone being out to kill you."

Sherlock looked like he wanted to snap back some withering response, but it was cut off by another round of heaving. There was nothing left in his stomach to empty, now, but apparently his stomach had yet to get the memo. He spat a mouthful of vomit into the toilet bowl and groaned.

"She did want me away from the party," he muttered darkly.

"True - but you also ate those mystery leftovers in the back of the fridge right before we left. The ones that were behind the leaky bag of gall bladders, as it turned out. This is why I keep complaining when you put your body parts-_shit_." John broke off as Sherlock retched again. He looked so miserable. "Need some water?"

Sherlock shook his head no.

"I know - it sucks." John reached out and rubbed a hand over Sherlock's slumped shoulders, gently tracing the shape of his shoulderblades through his dress shirt. Sherlock froze for a moment, then slowly relaxed. "Get it out of your system."

Sherlock shook his head. "All that's left is bile."

2

"You may have forgotten, lying on the sofa for four days straight like you've been doing, but we do sometimes get sun in London. And occasionally sun cream is necessary."

Sherlock pressed his face into the mattress and groaned. "Make it stop, John."

"Of course, it wouldn't have been an issue if you hadn't stripped off your shirt to catch a pigeon with. I don't even want to think how much that shirt cost."

"John." Sherlock shifted his legs, the only part of him which wasn't currently lobster-red. "Do you have aloe or not?"

"It's right here." John popped the cap and poured a generous dollop into his palm. "I assume you expect me to put it on you, too?"

"You don't . . . have to." Sherlock licked his lips and looked away. "It's fine; I'll handle it."

"Shut up and hold still. Not even you can reach the middle of your back without missing spots." John kept his touch gentle, but Sherlock still hissed in a sharp breath when his hands made contact. It took four more applications of aloe before he proclaimed Sherlock's back and shoulders 'done.' "Roll over."

"I can do it."

"Roll over anyway."

He worked the gel evenly into Sherlock's entire burned torso, a squeeze at a time. "Next time, Sherlock," he said quietly, "don't get burned?"

3

"You seem to have bits of the murder weapon in your hair, Sherlock."

"Do I?" Sherlock shook his head, dislodging a shower of glass shards, but smaller pieces still spangled the dark curls like tiny stars. He frowned. "Inconvenient."

"Come here, you git." John patted the wooden chair he was leaning against. "Sit."

Sherlock shot a glance at Lestrade, who was currently supervising the transfer of the blackmailing mistress and the jilted wife to the rear of separate police cars, but he did sit. Donovan and Anderson were busy; nobody was watching. John immediately pulled his shoulders upright, the better to see the glass shards in the dubious lighting, and started carding his fingers through Sherlock's hair.

"He would have paid if she'd done better research into his finances," Sherlock finally said after the silence between them had gone beyond companionable and well into awkward. "A hundred thousand pounds less and she'd have been home free."

"I don't think that was the point," John answered. "She didn't want the money - she wanted him to acknowledge her."

"Shoving him through a window defeats the purpose."

"She won." John moved down to Sherlock's shoulders, brushing near-invisible slivers of glass off his perfectly tailored suit. "Sometimes you just need acknowledgement that you're appreciated."

Sherlock went silent for a long while, his head bowed.

4

The explosion tore John out of another Afghanistan nightmare. It took a full minute to realize that yes, the noise had been real, and it had come from the vicinity of the kitchen. Two seconds after that, John was out of bed and running downstairs.

"Jesus, Sherlock, are you okay?"

Sherlock's expression waffled between disbelief and affront. "It wasn't supposed to do that," he complained. The table and most of the front of his shirt were spattered with a pungent grayish liquid. As John watched, the puddle on the table started to fizz and bubble.

"Is that eating our table?"

"Probably. It wasn't supposed to be this volatile."

"Christ." John grabbed the dish gloves from the sink and pulled them on, then caught Sherlock by the shoulders and started undoing the buttons on his ruined shirt.

"John, what-"

"Need to get this off before whatever caustic glop this is gets on your skin," John interrupted. He yanked the two halves of the shirt apart and pulled it off Sherlock without any splashed fabric touching either of them. The gloves followed it into the bin, then he focused his attention on running his bare palms over Sherlock's thankfully-unburned bare chest. "Any pain?"

Sherlock shook his head, uncharacteristically silent. John suddenly realized he was groping his flatmate and pulled away. "Right. No blisters."

5

The shot came from behind them, spraying them both with a shower of brick dust from the wall to their left. Sherlock had been standing, a perfect target for the cornered murderer desperate to escape. John reacted without thinking - the moment the man fired, John launched himself at Sherlock and knocked him flat behind the row of wooden crates which were their only (and grossly inadequate) cover. Sherlock struggled, but John held firm.

"Are you hit?" he hissed. Sherlock didn't look to be bleeding, but John wasn't exactly in a position to assess injuries.

Sherlock's bony form squirmed once more beneath him, then Sherlock's wide eyes met his and he stilled. "I'm fine."

"Stop trying to bloody get yourself killed."

"I didn't realize he'd have a gun."

"Good thing I called Lestrade, then." Already there were sirens approaching in the distance. "Just hold still."

They waited, breathing silently, until the yells of Met officers made it abundantly clear the killer had fled. Only then did John realize he was still lying fully on top of Sherlock, the two of them pressed chest-to-chest, and that Sherlock's heart was beating like a rabbit's. He looked down - Sherlock's eyes were wide, pupils dilated, mouth slightly open. Shallow breaths. Adrenaline, arousal, or both?

John suddenly realized he very much hoped it was both.

+1

"You're not shot." John drew them both to a stop just inside 221B, kept his hand on Sherlock's wrist. "You could have been, tonight, but you weren't."

Sherlock's eyes locked on where John's fingertips wrapped around his slender forearm. He licked his lips. "I'm fine," he said, his voice more fragile than usual.

"I could have lost you. It's not fine." John tugged him closer, stepped so they were face-to-face. Tilted his chin up so he could look directly into Sherlock's eyes, which were wide and uncertain. "Tonight I realized - bloody hell, Sherlock, do you have any idea how much you mean to me? I can't - I don't know how to-"

And then he saw Sherlock's gaze dart down to his lips, just for a moment, and the only reasonable thing to do was to yank Sherlock closer and press their mouths together. Sherlock made a tiny surprised sound, more a whimper than anything, but then he tentatively started kissing back. John buried his hand in the curls at the nape of Sherlock's neck and tilted Sherlock's head closer, took the kiss deeper. He'd bet anything this was new for the detective, wanting and being wanted, touching for the sake of touching and not as a means to an end, but Sherlock seemed cautiously pleased. Curious.

John grinned. "Bed?"


End file.
